


Kale and Roses

by FrivolousSuits



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 02:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrivolousSuits/pseuds/FrivolousSuits
Summary: Rachel Zane runs a flower shop on the Upper East Side. For several years her next-door neighbor is Bennett Bakery, but when Katrina upgrades to a store twice the size two blocks away, Rachel starts guessing what the replacement might be. Perhaps a French fashion house will open a location there, or a sophisticated chocolatier, or an avant-garde art gallery, or–A tattoo guy?





	Kale and Roses

Rachel Zane runs a flower shop– though calling it a mere “flower shop” doesn’t do it justice, it’s more properly described as a high-end floral boutique– on the Upper East Side, nestled among several other upscale establishments. For several years her next-door neighbor is Bennett Bakery, a French patisserie with the finest gluten-free macarons this side of the Atlantic, but when Katrina upgrades to a store twice the size two blocks away, Rachel starts guessing what the replacement might be. No doubt it’ll be perfectly elegant, further elevating the artistic and cultural cache of their street. Perhaps a French fashion house will open a location there, or a sophisticated chocolatier, or an avant-garde art gallery, or–

A tattoo guy.

A tattoo parlor is starting up next door, and when Rachel reads the notice she wants to hurl one of her antique vases into the floor. But of course she refrains from doing so, instead calling in aggressive complaints over the construction noise that starts a few days later and turning up her store’s music– a careful selection of flower-related songs from ballet and opera– to drown out the hammering.

She does a tiny bit more research and finds that the tattoo guy is named Harvey Specter. And ugh, she can picture him, a burly, grizzled guy in a tank top, covered head to toe in sweat and tattooed fish scales, hunched over in a dark, grungy, grimy shop.

Though they’ve never met, she already suspects she’ll dislike him.

* * *

Rachel’s pacing in front of her shop at 7:30am, exquisitely frothed cappuccino in hand, eyes focused on the new window displays she’s put out just this morning. She’s checking the composition when a stranger approaches her.

“Rachel Zane?”

She straightens up to find a tall man, dressed in impeccably tailored trousers and a button-down shirt, strikingly handsome with a blinding smile. At once she dons her own client service smile and asks, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. . . .”

“Specter.”

Her smile freezes.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” he continues, “since we’re neighbors now.”

She nods slowly. “You do tattoos.”

“I’m a highly experienced tattoo artist.”

She hears “artist” and looks back at her window arrangements. Her only answer is an lackluster “Mm-hmm.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You doubting the ‘artist’ bit?”

“I didn’t say that,” she murmurs.

“Sure, but I read people.” He tilts his head. “If you’re looking for formal credentials, I’ve got two degrees from RISD.”

“And yet,” she says mildly, “you do tattoos.”

“While you do flowers,” he says, his smile slowly tilting into a one-sided smirk. “Can you even _draw_ a bike?”

It’s an infamous admissions requirement at the Rhode Island School of Design– all students must submit a drawing of a bicycle. At age 18, Rachel tried drawing a damn bicycle thirty times over, from every perspective, in every style she could come up with, only to hate all the end results and scrap the whole idea of applying. She ended up at Columbia instead, she’s quite proud of her _magna cum laude_ degree, but it’s still a sore point that she could never draw well enough to pull a bike off, and now she’s stammering because how could he possibly know –

“Shot in the dark,” he says, now wearing an utterly cocky smirk and heading to the door of his own establishment. “My apologies.”

He’s not sorry at all.

Harvey Specter isn’t at all what she expected, but she does indeed dislike him.

* * *

The next morning, she assembles a massive bouquet of hydrangeas and morning glory before moving on to the next arrangement. When he shows up at 7:30, she’s prepared.

“Look, I’m sure tattoos are lovely, but this–” she gestures at her second window display, a fountain of damask roses arranged on a bed of lacy kale– “requires real style. Florists ought to have an excellent sense of balance and composition, plus an eye for detail.”

“I’ll give you that,” he nods before adding, “but does anyone really _care_ if you do?”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Flowers die,” he says with a shrug. “Where’s the stakes? In my line of work, if I didn’t have an excellent sense of balance and composition plus an eye for detail, people would walk around looking like Jackson Pollock paintings.”

He says the last three words with utter scorn, and on instinct she whirls around. “Are you making fun of Jackson Pollock?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” She’s about to generously let it go when he adds, “He’s an inspiration to kindergarteners everywhere.”

“He’s exhibited in MoMA, the Guggenheim, _and_ the Pompidou!”

“Yeah, it’s my life goal to be exhibited in a building that can’t even pay to cover the plumbing.” He rolls his eyes and crosses to his own door.

“That’s a terrible comeback.”

“Still better than the salad in your window.”

She turns back to the kale. While he does have a point– the juxtaposition just isn’t working today– she officially detests Harvey Specter.

* * *

For the next few weeks she avoids him by dressing her windows earlier in the morning, but one of her suppliers delays a delivery and she’s still outside at 7:30, when Harvey inevitably shows up.

“Cabbage? Really? I was under the impression you had standards–”

“I wouldn’t expect you to to get it,” she cuts him off, “but cabbages are a perfect symbol of this shop. They’re crisp, they’re unique . . . and they represent financial success.”

“So you’re not just relying on Dad’s money?”

She glances at him, and he seems genuinely curious. “No, I’m not. I’m entirely independent.” His smile softens, and so after a moment’s deliberation she lets herself go on, her voice warm with pride. “I’ve gotten all my own contracts, my own suppliers, and some of the best clients in the business.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Names _you_ probably wouldn’t even dream of.”

“Is that so?” he asks, amused.

“It is,” she replies confidently. “I do celebrity weddings and baby showers, I do editorial–”

“I do confidentiality agreements,” he cuts in ruefully. “Which means I can’t prove that my book of business blows yours out of the water. I’ll just have to settle for knowing it’s true.” He grins and heads off.

She ought to want to punch him, that’s the usual feeling that Harvey Specter inspires in her. Yet as he disappears into his own shop, she just feels sad that he’s already gone.

* * *

She sees him again, when he knocks on her door just after closing, a paper in his hand. “I’ve got a way to show you exactly the caliber of client I work with.”

She lets him in. “And what is that?”

“I want to hire you as a consultant.”

“ _What_?”

“A prospective client wants a symbolic floral design for her wedding, and I need to pitch her something really impressive. So I looked into you, and it turns out you’re the city expert on floral symbolism.”

“I am.” She bills herself not just an artist but a writer, fluent in more variants of international flower languages than she can count. She does her research, and she writes her clients’ messages in blooms, with all the precision that her father would put into a legal document.

“So I want to hire you,” he repeats. “You sign this, and I’ll tell you who my client is.”

She looks over his contract, and it seems like a perfectly straightforward agreement. He’s offering to pay her her usual hourly rate, though she doesn’t even know how he knows that; she’s not so gauche as to publicize it.

She reaches for her fountain pen and signs, and he instantly pulls out his phone and flashes the email from his client.

Rachel’s jaw drops. “You might get to work for–”

“I might.”

Blinking in awe, she invites him into her back room so they can begin the design process. She’s got bookcases full of floriography guides, and so she starts pulling down her favorites while Harvey gets out his notebook and pencil.

“So there’s a lot of flower languages out there,” she says, her words speeding up as she tries to impress Harvey for what are strictly professional reasons. “The Japanese version, of course, but also a lot of European types. I think you should start with Routledge and Greenaway, they’re not perfect, but they are one of the more popular dictionaries from the Victorian era . . .”

So she flips through and starts throwing out suggestions– ivy for _marriage_ , lemon blossoms and forget-me-nots for _fidelity_ and _true love –_ and he starts sketching. His initial designs are rough, but still eye-catching and cleverly arranged, and Rachel admits to herself that he can actually draw.

They order in sushi– Harvey pays, smoothly assuring her that it’s no trouble since he’s the one ruining her evening– and at some point the mood turns light, almost playful between them. They put aside the work to eat and start talking about their professional histories. She tells him about the most outrageous clients she’s had to deal with, and he repays her with tales of old coworkers that make her laugh until her sides hurt.

“So he took revenge _via tattoo_?”

“And made sure he was legally covered first,” Harvey says, grinning as he picks up another piece of sashimi with his chopsticks. “The poor guy really did get Litt up after all.”

After dinner, they return to working, throwing ideas back and forth, drawing inspiration from both their backgrounds, tinkering with the design until they have something striking and elegant and damn near perfect. When they part for the night, Rachel shakes his hand and wishes him luck.

“No need. I make my own luck.”

“Harvey Dent quotes? Really?”

He grins. “Night, Rachel.”

A few minutes later, he’s gone, and as she locks up she suddenly remembers that Harvey Dent’s girlfriend was a lawyer named, of all things, Rachel.

It must just be a coincidence.

* * *

The next day, she waits for Harvey’s call to hear how his pitch went, but it never comes. Finally, during a lull in business, she asks her assistant Donna to watch the shop while she steps out.

“Can’t go a whole day without seeing Harvey?”

She glares– god knows how Donna even figured out where she was going. “I’m following up on a business deal, thank you very much.”

So she finally enters the tattoo parlor.

She braces for the grungy cave of her nightmares, and instead finds a clean, well-lit studio, decorated with light woods and black leather and glass. She glances around, noting with appreciation the jazzy background music.

Harvey’s finishing up with a customer, so she quietly waits for him to be done. When he comes to her, she brightens up. “So how’d it go?”

“I got the job.”

He says it bluntly, without his characteristic joie de vivre, and she frowns. “What happened?”

“You know how I read people?” he says, lowering his voice. “Well, her groom-to-be came with her to the consultation, and I’d bet you a grand that he’s cheating on her.”

Her eyes widen. “Did you tell her?”

“You know I couldn’t.” He gives a heavy sigh. “I just dropped the ivy and made it all black.”

“Why, so it fits a funeral?”

“So it’s easier to get rid of,” he replies flatly. "Black's the easiest color to remove."

“That’s . . . practical.”

“Mm.”

“Hey, Harvey.” She pauses for a second, unsure of what to say; he’s refusing to meet her eyes. She settles for something simple. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll get over myself.”

“I truly doubt that’s possible,” she deadpans.

A second later, he glances up and breaks into a smile. His tone just as dry, he says, “Thanks, Rachel.”

* * *

The next day she gets a phone call. “In order to properly thank you, I’m sending _you_ a client.”

“You paid me, I’m pretty sure I’ve already been thanked.”

“You turning down business?”

“Absolutely not, tell me more.”

“A kid just walked into my place with a black Amex and a request for ink that the girls would like.”

“And?”

“And the kid’s ID was fake. He’s a literal kid, sixteen at the most.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “So where do I come in?”

“Well, I told him that what girls really want is flowers and poetry, and I told him if he wanted both at once–”

The bell at Rachel’s shop door rings, and she breathes, “I love you.”

She hangs up and goes to greet her newest customer, insistently not dwelling on what she just said.

* * *

Harvey keeps bringing her on as a consultant on his jobs; she suspects he’s weaving flowers into designs even when clients didn’t ask for them, but she won’t complain. Harvey’s a wonderful business partner, quick-witted and creative and terrifically funny, and Rachel comes to adore collaborating with him.

They’re staying up late at her place, working through the subtleties of _hanakotoba_ as they dine on sushi, when Rachel remarks airily that she’s contemplating getting some ink done herself.

Harvey raises his eyebrows. “Any specifics?”

“Something small, for sure. And probably floral,” she adds with a laugh.

“You want it, I can do it for you,” he says. “Or I can recommend plenty of other good artists.”

Then he reaches over to dip his sushi in her soy sauce, and she can’t do anything but laugh at that too. She’s so doomed.

“No, I trust you.”

His eyes flash. “Where would you put it?”

“Maybe my shoulder? That way I can cover it if I need to, for business.”

“That could work. Or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or you could put it somewhere more discreet.”

Maybe it’s sheer professional interest on his part, but he runs his eyes down her and she feels hot all over.

“Do you have a tattoo?”

She’s never seen one on him, even when he’s swapped his button-down shirt for a T-shirt, and she’s hit by a wave of electric curiosity. Yet all the bastard does is murmur, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

* * *

Goddammit.

She wants to know whether Harvey Specter has a tattoo, and how he looks when he’s focused on his work, gun in hand, and why he’s landed here in New York, and how he managed to establish one of the top studios in the city so young. She wants to know why he left traditional art, and why he’s so scared of adultery. She wants to know what he looks like in a three-piece suit. She wants to know whether he smirks in his sleep.

She can’t tear herself away from him, though she knows she’ll never have any of the answers.

One morning, she’s standing in front of her store, checking that she’s finally gotten ivory roses to work with her kale, when Harvey approaches with a rectangular block tucked under his arm.

“This is for you.”

She rises and takes it from him. It’s a canvas. It’s a canvas covered with–

“Flowers?”

He gives her one of his classic smirks. “Flowers die. I got you something better.”

Her immediate impression is that the painting is a Harvey Specter masterpiece, lush and perfectly balanced and intricate and bold all at once. But then her brain starts decoding the exact choices of flowers, by the definitions in Routledge and Greenaway.

One kind of rose to reveal, _thy smile I aspire to_. Another one says, _thou art all that is lovely_. Red carnations call out, _alas for my poor heart_ , while yet another rose pleads, _relieve my anxiety_. At the center is the honey flower, the blossom of _love, sweet and secret_.

He’s giving her _himself_.

Her eyes dart from side to side as she rushes to take it all in, and it’s a full minute before she notices the little four-leaf clovers tucked all over, singing, _Be mine._

“Yes,” she exclaims, torn over whether to laugh or cry.

“Yes, I’m a better artist than you?”

She scowls at him. “You’re amazing, and I hate you.”

He beams back, eyes sparkling with glee. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

**Author's Note:**

> The kale and roses are inspired by an arrangement from Putnam & Putnam, one of New York's top real-life floral boutiques.
> 
> I was taking rareship requests a few days back, so this is the last fill for those!


End file.
